


Pull Me Like an Animal Out of a Hole

by subplotter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3142391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subplotter/pseuds/subplotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clarke doesn't leave her tent for a couple days, Murphy comes up with a plan to draw her out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 2.08. Trigger warning for descriptions of self-harm. Title from "Every Other Freckle" by Alt-J.
> 
> Feel free to harass me at my [tumblr](http://somebodysmonster.tumblr.com) B)

If Murphy had had to explain it--which he wouldn't, ever--he would have said he was doing this for Clarke. She hadn't come out of her tent for two days. Which was reasonable, sure, what with how she'd been the one to off Finn, but it still didn't feel good. Murphy could sense it--the tension around, the lack of guidance even if Bellamy held the fort in Clarke's absence. Bellamy was a wonderful leader, but Clarke was perfect. A little mean, maybe, but Murphy would have trusted her with anything. Even if she had told him to stay away.

He couldn't. Everything felt wrong. Murphy couldn't feel positive about his position at camp after what Raven had said, and he needed Clarke around. Clarke might not like him but she'd protect him. She'd make sure nobody did anything morally unjustified, and Murphy had been very moral lately. Very fucking moral, thank you.

The pain felt good. Well not actually good--it hurt like hell, and he hissed as the blade made its cut down the inside of his forearm--but there was something satisfying about it. He did not deserve pain--he had enough fucking pain--but maybe he still felt in a subconscious way that he did deserve it.

Murphy made his way to where Abby Griffin had set up medical bay, hand over the bleeding cut, walking a little slower than he meant to. It was bleeding pretty bad, and it hurt worse than he'd planned it to. When Abby caught sight of him, her eyes widened, and she stopped whatever task she'd been in the middle of, coming forward to put her soft hands on him.

"Oh, honey."

"No." He shifted back and to the side a little, though he kept his grip on the wound. "I want Clarke."

"Clarke's not working right now," said Abby, and continued attempting to help him.

Murphy continued to evade. "I said no. Go get Clarke or I'll fucking bleed out."

Abby pursed her lips a little, but she nodded, gesturing to an empty cot. "Sit down."

So Murphy did. Eventually, Abby came back with Clarke. She looked terrible. Her eyes were puffy underneath, and dead just like Murphy's. She didn't say much as she approached Murphy, though she did look at him, gaze cooling a little when she did.

Abby handed her the supplies she needed, and Clarke's fingers were rough as she pulled Murphy's hand from the wound, gripping his forearm too hard when she inspected it.

"You did this to yourself, didn't you?" she said.

Murphy didn't say anything.

"Idiot," said Clarke. But she wet some gauze with some antiseptic and pressed it along the wound. It burned. Murphy groaned through clenched teeth, leaning toward her instinctively, but Clarke pushed him back with a harsh hand at his shoulder. Murphy wished she wouldn't. He wanted to be touched by her. He wanted her to tell him that it was okay, that they weren't going to banish him again, not ever, as long as he didn't kill anybody or attempt to kill anybody. Which he wouldn't do. He had learned that on the ground, no matter your age, that the punishment for death was death.

The burning devolved into a dull stinging and then disappeared under a slather of ointment, and Murphy felt an immense sort of pleasure from this. Even if Clarke was doing it begrudgingly, she was caring for him, just like she had when the Grounders had made him sick.

She taped a bandage over top the cut. "Come back tomorrow," she said. "My mom will redo the bandages then."

"Clarke." It was Abby's voice, and she came up close to her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "He asked for you."

"Well I don't care." Clarke stepped back, her eyes glaring (as they so often did) as she looked at Murphy. "Murphy's a killer, always will be. And unlike some people, he's still alive."

Murphy swallowed hard. His stomach turned uncomfortably. But he didn't say anything, only looked at Clarke with slick eyes. He kept watching as she turned around and walked away, disappearing back to her tent, probably.

Murphy would do as she said and come back tomorrow. But he would ask for Clarke again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Clarke still hasn't left her tent, Murphy goes to see her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay well I had to change the rating of his fic because it got super smutty???? Sorry if that upsets anyone but dang, you know, I just needed it. I don't know if it matters but I see Murphy as being demisexual, just FYI. Also, I'll proof this later. Sorry in advance for hella typos.
> 
> Angst about Clarphy with me at my [tumblr](http://somebodysmonster.tumblr.com), okay. <3

Apparently, when the wound wasn't fresh, indignant calls for Clarke did nothing to coax her out. Murphy didn't try very hard. He knew she wouldn't be so willing to come help him again. And he wasn't willing to make any more fresh wounds. Not for the benefit of the Princess, who mourned for Finn but would have never mourned for Murphy, if Raven's little plan had worked.

But as soon as Abby had finished refreshing his bandages the following day, he made his way to her tent. She still hadn't come out. She and Bellamy and some of the adults were supposed to talk to the Grounders soon, but nobody had been able to extract her. (Not even Bellamy, who had been visiting her twice per day, and spending hours hidden in there with her, probably trying to give her some gentle, bullshit-filled series of motivational speeches.)

Murphy was not polite about his visit. He merely lifted the flap of her tent and walked through, plopping himself down on the blankets next to where she lay, sleeping, he thought. But as his bottom hit the fabric, legs crossing comfortably, Clarke's voice rose from the dark lump, gritty and angry.

"Get out."

Murphy watched her with his cool eyes, greasy strands of hair falling into them as he leaned down toward her head, dropping his voice as low as it could go and not be a whisper. "That's not happening, Princess."

Clarke glared at him for a second before lifting up her blankets and covering her head. "Don't call me that."

Murphy smiled. He didn't often smile, but Clarke was...cute, like this. But as he looked at her covered up form, her shape evident even through the fabric, his expression slipped back into its usual lifelessness. He didn't know how to get her to feel better. He didn't know how to get in her favor, and it was something that made him feel hollow, deep in the center of his form.

He looked down at his own lap, picking at his fingers. "I know you miss Finn. But everybody needs you."

Clarke pulled the fabric from her face to glare at him again. Murphy felt it before he turned his gaze back onto her, his own eyes meeting hers.

"Don't talk about Finn," he said. "You of all people shouldn't talk about Finn."

Murphy's eyes darkened slightly. "You still blame me for that?"

Clarke only continued to glare.

And Murphy, feeling rash, reached immediately into his pocket for his knife and brought to it his unwounded arm. He only managed to press the tip into the skin, blood blooming to the surface, before Clarke was up and reaching for his hand, taking the knife away.

He felt something tight and uncomfortable in his chest, and it seemed to want to put its pressure into his stomach, into his nose and eyes. He had felt this same way when Raven had pointed her gun at him.

Clarke was looking at him with anger like always, but there was something else there too. Murphy felt a little satisfied, as this was what he'd been looking for from her. Worry. He wanted her to be worried about him. He wanted her to care if something bad happened to him. But he felt embarrassment too. It was hot and sick down his shoulders.

He reached to try and snatch the knife back, but she held it out of his reach. "Is that your plan, Murphy?" she said, anger lacing her voice. "Hurt yourself until I, what? Forgive you?"

Murphy's expression crunched with indignance. "I already told you. I tried to stop him. I don't need anybody to forgive me."

"Then what do you want? You had better tell me or I'm going to tell Bellamy you can't have knives."

The tight feeling seemed to lift slightly. Or maybe Murphy was just growing more comfortable with it. He liked that Clarke was responding. All her attention was on him right now. Probably he was being selfish, but at least right now, she wasn't thinking about Finn.

But he didn't know how to put it into words, what he wanted. His eyes pricked with moisture, and he averted them, glaring at the ground. "Everybody's worried about you. You don't leave your tent."

"I'm leaving it tomorrow. We're going to discuss the truce with the Grounders."

Her tone seemed to sharpen Murphy's embarrassment. She made it sound like there was no problem at all. Like he was delusional or something. Like the only person with open wounds in the room was him.

He didn't say anything. He just froze, a ball of tension there in the middle of Clarke's tent.

After a few moments, she reached to grip his arm, pulling it toward her. She seemed to be examining the little cut he'd just given himself. But it wasn't deep. After that, she gripped his other arm, too, pulling it toward her gently, inspecting the bandage.

"You should go back to Medical," she said. "Get this looked at."

Murphy snatched his arms away from her. "I'm fine."

"Obviously not. Self-harming is a symptom of a lot of things, Murphy. And none of them are good." Still holding the knife, Clarke lay back down in the blankets, like the problem of Murphy was done and solved.

Murphy swallowed hard. "Sleeping all day is a symptom of things too, isn't it?" His tone was gentle but vindictive.

Clarke was silent. Murphy felt that he had hurt her.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's okay." But she turned her back to him, lying on her side. Murphy slid his eyes over her. He noticed her shape again, the sweep of her hip under the blankets. Leaning a little, he could see his knife glinting it where she gripped it in her hands.

"Give that back," he said.

Her eyes were closed, but her brow raised. "No."

"You're depressed," he said. "You can't be trusted with it."

And Clarke laughed, the sound cutting and mirthless. "I'm not the one cutting myself."

Murphy made a go for it. But Clarke only rolled onto her stomach, laughing more, the sound a bit more genuine this time. "Go away, Murphy, I'm not letting you have it."

"I'll just find another one."

"Doubtful." She didn't explain the arrogant, sure tone of the word. But Murphy suspected she understood that he wouldn't do it, not if it wouldn't get a reaction out of Clarke. Not if she wouldn't come give him this tough love. God, it made him feel good. Kindness didn't make sense to him if it didn't have a bite to it.

Clarke stayed in that position, on her stomach protecting the knife, and Murphy found himself smirking. He thought she was inviting him to try again. If he left now, she'd go back to being sad. He didn't want her to be sad.

Tentatively, he dug his fingers into her sides through the blankets, attempting to tickle her.

"Nice try," said Clarke. "I'm not ticklish."

Murphy took this as permission to try something more. And so he carefully moved the blankets down, exposing more of her clothed back, until she was uncovered down to her waist. Nervousness made his throat feel sticky, but he shifted his body anyway, half-lying down next to her. He slid his fingers up under the hem of her shirt, fingers connecting lightly with her skin and traveling down and around to her stomach.

When she jerked, he laughed, pulling his hand away. "You are ticklish."

Clarke looked over her shoulder at him, raising her brow again. Murphy found her features to be extremely easy on the eyes.

"So you're going to stop?" she said.

"I don't want you jerking and getting yourself hurt with that thing."

Clarke responded by handing the knife over. Murphy stared at her for a moment before taking it, immediately reaching to set it a couple of feet away from them.

"Go ahead," she said, relaxing down onto her stomach.

Murphy stared down at her back, expression wary. "You sure?"

"Don't you want to make me feel better?"

Yes. And his whole body wanted to bring her off, wanted to make her feel good in a way that he figured Bellamy and whoever else had visited her couldn't.

He pulled the blanket completely from her. And he lowered himself down against her back, his leg pressing up between her legs.

Clarke's breathing grew audible, soft and sweeping from her lips. Murphy kissed at her neck. And his hand slid beneath her body, moving across her stomach. When he could get a good grip around her torso with his arm, he pulled her onto her side, back against his chest.

Clarke was warm and soft against him. He grew hard and couldn't help but rub himself a little against her backside. But he didn't want to go that far with her. He didn't want to risk it--pregnancy, or hurting her. He didn't have much experience with that, but he'd done this before, before he'd been locked in the skybox.

His hand slid up over her chest, fingers forcing themselves into the cups of her bra to rub and pinch at her nipples. She responded by writhing. And Murphy could only grunt a little against her ear, her movements sending visions of wet heat into his head. Oh wouldn't it be great, though, to fuck her? She'd probably never let him do this again.

But he kept up with the original plan. And when he finally slid fingers down into her underwear, he was rewarded with a breathy moan.

He laughed softly. "You get this wet for all the boys?"

"Shut up," she said. And her hand came down over top of his, positioning his fingers where he wanted them. "There," she said. "Easy."

Murphy moaned through closed lips. He began to move his fingers in slow circles just where she'd told him to. And it was exhilarating, doing what she said, doing it right. He nosed at the back of her ear as he kept it up, as she gave him soft, shaky noises, her body moving against his. He lost himself a little. He rutted against her in time with is fingers, breathing harsh as she did too, his fingers moving quicker over her clit, led by his instincts. Eventually, she tightened and jerked against him, and he kept his fingers going gently until she relaxed.

His arousal was nearly painful at this point, and his nose was filled with her smell. "I'll give you another," he said.

"Murphy." She spoke in a heavy, sated voice, but this only spurred him on. Shifting their positions, he pushed her gently down onto her back, crawling on top of her. She looked at him with hooded eyes.

"You're so pretty," he said.

And she only gave him a softly perturbed look, lips half-smiling but brows creased. She didn't stop him, though, when he moved to take her bra off, to suck at each of her breasts. She was still mostly clothed, the fabric of her shirt bunched up just above her chest, her pants undone but her underwear covering her. They were soaked, though, and Murphy pressed his leg between hers again, careful not to give her too much stimulation just yet.

"Fuck me," she said, her arm wrapped around him, hand rubbing at his back.

"No," he said. It physically hurt to refuse, but something in him twisted at the thought. She was sad. She was just sad. He didn't want her to look at him later like he'd done something terrible.

Before she could get too annoyed with him in this moment, he put his hand back in her underwear, sliding one of his fingers inside her.

She made a squeaky noise, her hand clenching in his hair, pulling. It hurt. But Murphy liked the pain, and he rubbed himself against her thigh as he fucked her with his fingers, sliding a second in.

It didn't take long to bring her off once more. Soon she was jerking against his hand, and Murphy buried his face against her neck, remaining there even as he slid his fingers out.

"Just give me a second," he said. And he rutted against her in earnest, until he was finishing inside his pants.

Clarke drew soft fingers down the back of his neck. "Coward."

"Excuse me?" Murphy was feeling too good now to be terribly affected by the insult, but he still didn't like it. He pushed himself up. He needed to go wash himself before he ruined his clothes.

"You know what I mean," she said. "Pathetic."

Murphy narrowed his eyes at her as she turned over onto her side, pulling the blankets up over her shoulder.

"You'll thank me later," he said.

"Whatever."

But when Murphy leaned down to press a parting kiss to her cheek, Clarke slid blown, devious eyes onto him. "That was good," she said.

Murphy smiled smugly. "I know," he said. And the smile remained on his face as he stood up and walked backwards out of the tent, turning to saunter away from it, sliding his fingers under his nose in what he hoped was a discreet manner. He realized he'd forgotten his knife a few minutes later but didn't go back for it.


End file.
